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Nevin's Gift

Nevin's Gift FICTION Nevin's Gift________________________ Jean L. Sexton The early edge ofthe sun barely peeked over the ridge of Hogback Moun- tain, winking through the bristly pines before losing itself in the shadowy tangles of laurel. Lacking the strength to warm the world just yet, the sun was still a welcome sight for Sardis Miller as she climbed higher toward it, carefully holding her galvanized pails away from her legs. She had tucked the length of her skirt into the shirtwaist to make the climb easier, and she didn't want those cold buckets to touch her bare skin if she could help it. The buckets would be colder still when she'd filled them with the spring water that rang and rippled in the woods above the house, and Sardis was still sleep-warm and drowsy from the night. Shivering, hurrying, Sardis stepped high over an out-flung beech root that lurked in the path. She did it without thinking, from long habit; root and path meant as much and as little to Sardis as the hair ofher head or the dented tin buckets she carried. Her feet slip-slapped against the packed dirt while her water pails jingled and danced on their wire handles. http://www.deepdyve.com/assets/images/DeepDyve-Logo-lg.png Appalachian Review University of North Carolina Press

Nevin's Gift

Sexton, Jean L.
Appalachian Review , Volume 25 (3) – Jan 8, 2014
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Publisher
University of North Carolina Press
Copyright
Copyright © Berea College
ISSN
1940-5081

Abstract

FICTION Nevin's Gift________________________ Jean L. Sexton The early edge ofthe sun barely peeked over the ridge of Hogback Moun- tain, winking through the bristly pines before losing itself in the shadowy tangles of laurel. Lacking the strength to warm the world just yet, the sun was still a welcome sight for Sardis Miller as she climbed higher toward it, carefully holding her galvanized pails away from her legs. She had tucked the length of her skirt into the shirtwaist to make the climb easier, and she didn't want those cold buckets to touch her bare skin if she could help it. The buckets would be colder still when she'd filled them with the spring water that rang and rippled in the woods above the house, and Sardis was still sleep-warm and drowsy from the night. Shivering, hurrying, Sardis stepped high over an out-flung beech root that lurked in the path. She did it without thinking, from long habit; root and path meant as much and as little to Sardis as the hair ofher head or the dented tin buckets she carried. Her feet slip-slapped against the packed dirt while her water pails jingled and danced on their wire handles.

Journal

Appalachian Review – University of North Carolina Press

Published: Jan 8, 2014

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